The book was simple, brown leather skin, tan parchment pages, with vibrant blue ink scribbled in neat lines, covering page after page. Her life was in the book. Her character, her essence, her entire being was the book. The book made her what she was. Long brown hair that tangled all too easily, an innocent look that charmed all she met, stockings that come up to her ankles that were stained with mud and grass, shoes that were two sizes too big. Those stray blue ink spots that dotted the pages dotted her skin as well.  Everything was in the book. The book told her story, the book knew her childhood. The book had laid out her life, guided every step. The book told how, in a rickety old cabin, questionably purchased, far from civilization, she was born to a milk maid and a paper boy. The book had described how the milk maid’s cheeks sunk from rosy and plump to hollow and grey, how her young and bright eyes lost their twinkle. The book showed how the lines on the milkmaid’s face became etched permanently, like markings on a tomb stone, when the paper boy left and never came back. The book determined every detail of every moment of every minute of her whole existence. It knew the flavors of her 2nd birthday cake, and could tell you the pattern of the doily that sat in the center of the kitchen table. The scribbly blue handwriting that adorned the pages told her what to do, what to say, what to think. They told her to cry, deep sobs, as the milkmaid’s tired eyes, no longer brilliant green, shut for good. The book showed her pain and suffering, but also happiness and love. The book gave her the clothes on her back; blue lace, blue bows, and blue silk woven out of the blue ink on its own pages. The book made her bones grow stronger, her height grow taller, and her hair grow longer. The book gave her scrapes on her knees from when she climbed trees on a dare. The book blackened her eye when she lost a fight in the school yard. But the book gave her food, a home, water; everything she needed. The chapters of the books added years on her life, and gave her wisdom and knowledge that came with age. With every turn of a page, her heart beat once more. She relied on the book. She trusted the book. And everything was right for her. Because the book was never wrong. When she walked, the book told her when to walk, where to step, when to breathe, when to talk. However she still let the book control her steps, as she walked to market. The book said it cared, it told her that it would never do anything to hurt her. But she noticed one day. The book was wrong. The book lied. And she followed blindly, though she knew, she always knew. The book didn’t tell her to stop, to turn around, didn’t let her think. She walked, unresisting, feeling her feet slip over smooth rocks, tickling grasses, then hot sand. She didn’t scream out or protest. The book wouldn’t let her. She could do nothing but walk, silently, straight faced, forward as she felt the ocean lap at her toes, her ankles, her knees. She felt the salty spray sting her eyes, tangle her hair, and clog her senses. The book made her walk on, into the crashing foam. The book forced her to keep her head down as the waves rolled over her head, pulling her with their currents. The book filled her mouth, her ears, eyes, nose, and throat, with the cool salty liquid. The water whipped the long brown hair into a tangled mess, currents pulling her arms and legs in different directions. The sea took everything the book had given her. Her shoes were gone, her dress torn, her bows lost in the vast blue expanse. The blue ink of the book formed blue currents, encouraging the crashing waves. The book let water fill the girl’s lungs. She knew the book was destroying her. She knew why. Yet she could do nothing. The book let her eyes close, let her think her final words. Maybe, just maybe, she could do something. The book let the world go dark. Yes. She knew. The book was her life. The book could destroy her, could do as it wished with her. But there was a way to destroy the book itself. The book did not know, or did not understand. Yet she did. And finally, with the pressure of a thousand waves crashing over her head, she opened her eyes and smiled. For the first time without the book, she smiled, a wicked grin, the grin of a girl that had just discovered her power. The book was angry. The blue swirled faster, pulling her down, further into the abyss. She pulled from the pocket of the blue dress, a knife, shining silver, glinting through the blue. The book did not allow it, but she did it anyway. The book dragged her down, further, sending ripping currents to pull the knife from her hand. But the girl would not let go. Her smile danced between waves of blue, as she plunged the knife, sinking it into everything the book had given her. The blue currents flashed, suddenly filled with a brilliant crimson. She smiled, that beautifully terrifying grin as she cut, deeper, harder, sawing away everything that the book had created in her. The book was furious. The blue fought with the crimson, clashing like two armies, tangling and meshing as they battled. They swirled faster and faster, a sea of violet engulfing both girl and book. The books anguish was unmistakable, yet the girl’s smile never wavered. It never shook as the ocean spouted them upwards, through its newly purple waves, and to the surface. The book, blank, the girl, dead. But the book was blank. And the girl was free.